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Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Seems my writing aspirations have taken a backseat to the family life I never thought I'd have. And I've been enjoying every bit of it. A husband whose company I enjoy. A grandson I will drop everything for. And two doggies who are always by my side.

I have a full-time job that often comes home with me. Yes, even in the summer, I'm writing lesson plans. And education is changing at a rate that I've never seen before. I'm not sure I even understand what is happening. I feel like an old time teacher, a bit out of touch.

But I am trying. Trying to tweet. Trying Instagram. Making those connections with educators from all over America and connecting with the students I teach. When I whipped out my new cell phone to snap pictures with it in class and the kids noticed, I felt a little more with it.

I'm in year number three with my Kindle, and I'm still loving it. But like others, I complained when the Silk Browser update locked me out of my downloaded documents for a couple months. I still had the e-books though, and most of the books I read this year were from my small town public library.

I read a lot of chapter books and middle grade books. I am fascinated with the authors who can develop a character and just keep going with it. How I long for the inspiration and gumption to get my character all figured out.

It feels like a pipe dream now, something that's beyond someday. But a girl can still dream. She just has to act on it--probably with more baby steps than the giant ones she started off with.

Thursday, May 5, 2016

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Esther Gilchrist, was picky about manners. We had personal hygiene checks. She checked our fingernails once a week and required us to fill out a chart about brushing our teeth. I think I lied on it.

If anyone’s finger got close to their nose, Mrs. Gilchrist would say the student’s name, tap her nose, shake her head, and say, “No-no.”

Only a certain number of people could be walking around the room at a time. If we were in the library area, we squatted down. That way someone else could get up to turn in a paper or go the mathematics table. At times we looked like a bunch of Jack in the Boxes when she was busy with a reading group.

Why were we walking around during class anyway? Now that I think of it, Mrs. Gilchrist trusted us. She gave us a lot of freedom for being 8-year-olds. Here’s a rundown.

Me, in 3rd grade. I look ornery.

During work time, if we had to go to the restroom, I don't remember having to ask her—maybe because she was busy with a reading group. We signed a piece of paper taped to the back of her desk. I think we missed part of recess then.

We never ever sat in rows. Our desks were arranged in teams of four or six. Facing each other.

Nobody sat in teams in 1975!Mrs. Gilchrist was before her time. I love that.In the fall, our desks were arranged in a big square around a huge map of the town. I accidentally spilled milk on it during our cracker and milk break.

Mrs. Gilchrist was so gracious to me. I ruined part of it, but she knew I didn't do it on purpose. I don't remember if she let me have my snack at my desk anymore—wouldn't blame her if she placed me off to the side.

That map confused me too because I didn't know Hitchcock. I was a farm kid who’d never walked the streets of the town. I had a vague idea what a block was, but when we went to collect leaves, I was rather intimidated—my classmates seemed to know exactly where they were going, but I didn’t.

Up near the front of Mrs. Gilchrist’s classroom was a long table with a few record players and headphones. We'd listen to multiplication songs. We worked at our own pace memorizing and then quizzed out when we were ready to move on. Individual learning plan of sorts, I’d say—in the 70s, mind you—in rural South Dakota.

Like I said, Mrs. Gilchrist was ahead of her time.

Class of 1984 as 3rd graders at Hitchcock Elementary

It was in third grade math that I learned a trick. For 8+7 equaling 15, she taught us to think 7+7=14 +1 equals 15. To this day, that is how I figure out 8+7. I do a similar thing with 8+9. Those two answers aren't automatic for me. I do that trick every time when I’m adding in my head. Wonder if anyone else from the Class of 1984 does that.

In 1974-75 school year, our classroom teachers also taught physical education. Mrs. Gilchrist had two long poles that we’d hold six to eight inches off the floor and then snap together in various rhythms that she taught us. Another set of students would do some sort of hopping maneuver through the poles.

I don't remember her demonstrating this, for she was an elegant lady who reminded me of Mrs. Howell on "Gilligan's Island," but she must have shown us. YouTube didn’t exist and a reeled movie was treat.

This was the year we started going to the multi-purpose room for music. That’s where I took clarinet lessons a few years later from Mr. Wiens—read about the time he showed up at my house by clicking here. This was the huge room where Mrs. Gilchrist taught us to square dance.

Growing up Mennonite Brethren, we didn't dance, but Mom and Dad had no problem with me learning to square dance. I’d secretly hoped they'd say I couldn't do it, for we had to dance with the boys. Wasn't quite my thing—even though third grade was the year I married Jeff Waldner out by the cottonwood trees at recess. Anybody else have a grade school marriage?

Had you asked me as a child or a high school student if Mrs. Gilchrist was one of my favorite teachers, I’d have said, “No way!” She was too prim and proper. Too picky. Too lady-like. Too soft-spoken. Yes, I prefer boisterous teachers. Does that surprise anyone?

But now as an adult and a teacher myself, I see her in a more positive light. She had a way of engaging us in the course work. She insisted on neatness and order. She certainly knew her subject matter and beyond. She presented lessons with a mixture of traditional paper/pencil, hands-on activities, and technology.

Maybe I am kind of like her. Minus the prim and proper because I teach middle school—we are far from proper.

Because of Mrs. Gilchrist, I know the four food groups (this was before the food pyramid) which we charted on the chalkboard each day after noon recess.I know my cardinal directions, can write in cursive (although it sloppy now), and can function within a group. I understand arithmetic but am still waiting for the metric system to be fully adopted into American society like she said it would.

Mrs. Gilchrist

I look at her picture now, the one she gave me when I was her student. I see a pretty lady. Hair just so, straight teeth, lovely clothing, and hardly any make-up. She really was a beauty. Just as beautiful on the inside too in the way she dealt with me.

May she somehow know that this little girl really is sorry for writing Todd Tollefson a note asking him if he farted. I was pulled in the hallway and told, “Young ladies don’t talk like that. I’m really disappointed in you, Melodie.”

She had every right to call me out on that.

It’s a good thing though, that she didn’t see me place my hand flat on my desk and bend under all my fingers but one. Third grade was the year I figured out what the middle finger meant. I may not have been able to maneuver a city block, but I knew what the cows and the bulls were doing on the farm. I made the connection one day to the middle finger and realized it all.

Stunned. Grossed out. Looked at adults in a completely different way. Didn’t like that I knew that. I probably asked my best friend Gail, two years older, if I was right. Read more about Gail here.

This was also the year that Gail and I, along with the high school girls we copied, got in trouble for writing on the school bus seats—in ink pen. Mrs. Gilchrist never said a word to me about it. She must have known I was already embarrassed when Superintendent Dale Schneider called me out of her class one morning to go scrub the seats with Comet. Read more about Mr. Schneider by clicking here.

Third grade was a lot of firsts. I got glasses, started piano lessons, and was allowed to spend the night at a friend’s house. I got my own Bible too. Looks like I needed that considering my fart-word use (my dad still forbids the use of that word; read where I learned the wordhere), vandalism, and discovery of the meaning of the f-word.

Thank you, Mrs. Gilchrist, for being one of the many who molded me.

Which teacher was in your life during your biggest times of discovery and mischief? What educator have you changed your mind about as the years have passed?

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Our grandson turned one-year-old today. This past year, I kept a journal as though I was writing to him. Here are a few excerpts from it. Most are from before he was born.

8.15.14. Today I heard
about you for the first time. A little baby. A baby. Brittany is barely not one
herself at 20-years-old. I think her dad, your grandpa who is my husband, got
teary-eyed after she told us. He was pretty quiet. Worrying. I wonder how you
will change our lives. Will we get to see you often? Will we spoil you? Will we
get alone time with you? I have mixed emotions, it seems. I look forward to
being in your life, yet I’m afraid that I won’t be in it much. Oh, how I
already love you, and I just heard about you. I was only in your momma’s life
for six years before she left for college, and so much has changed since then.
Oh little baby, I pray for your soul.

8.27.14. A week ago today
we found out you were for real. Doctor said so and Bee called her dad. I am
excited. I really am. I think it will be neat seeing your firsts. I wonder if
you are a boy or a girl. We'll probably know because if Bee wants to know—she
won’t be able to not tell. I pray for your soul, little one, that some day
you’ll understand your purpose in Christ. I haven’t even met you, and I love
you.

9.17.14.
Your momma told the world about you today on Facebook. She must be
excited. She sure gobbled down the food when we took her out to eat on Sunday.
Your daddy was watching football with his family. I got to meet your daddy's mom and his sisters and some others. It's a full house. I think you will be well-loved there. You
were at the doctor today with your momma, and I guess you’re okay in there
since she announced it.

9.27.14. Oh, little baby,
your parents got married today at the Keeper of Plains in Wichita, Kansas at 3
pm. I hope you know you are loved. I hope you bring your mom around here more
often.

11.13.14. I know your
name. Jack Von. You are a boy. A grandson. Saw pictures of you today. Your
momma posted sonogram photos on Facebook. She called your grandpa too. Jack Von
Schmidt. Such a neat name. I bet you’ll be an interesting person. A deep
thinker. Your mommy really loves your daddy. I think that’s important. I hope
you see that. But more importantly, I hope you love Christ.

11.17.14. Oh Little Jack
Von, your momma came out for a visit today. She told us something might be
wrong. Weird stuff showed up on your sonogram that could lead to extra
chromosomes. You may be a special needs little fella. We love you all the same.
God is making you the way He wants you to be for His reasons.

2.21.15. Baby shower
tonight for you, Jack Von. Your mommy got lots of nice things. Glad your Great
Aunt Brenda took the time to meet me and come as we’d planned—even though the
time had changed. Wonder if I’ll get to be a part of your life. So ready to
meet you, learn to know you, learn to have fun with you, watch you grow and
become.

4.13.15. Today you were
born. I met you, Jack Von Schmidt. I’ve never been around a baby only a few
hours old. It was really something. Seeing you get all that love from both
sides of the family. You, little one, just might be the tie that binds. I hope
I really get to be a grandma to you. I love you, little guy. Just love you.

8.2.15. You, little baby,
have brought Brittany home. Home to Cheney. She and your daddy Nathaniel have
moved here for the time being. Today your mommy became a full-fledged adult.
She turned 21. Had someone told me two years ago that she would want to be here
with us calmly celebrating her birthday, I wouldn’t have believed it. God seems
to be using you to bring the family back together. Tonight your bio grandma, Grandma
Danita, and your Great Grandparents were all here. It was just like it was when
your mommy was growing up. I spent all Sunday afternoon preparing your mommy’s
favorites: pineapple ham and twice-baked potatoes. It was a labor of love, and
I enjoyed every minute of it. Tonight I held you in front of our bedroom mirror
and talked to you about the things on the little shelf nearby: the doggie
figurines, pictures, a crystal heart, the cross symbol, the courageous Cameron
bracelet. That's for your second cousin who fought lymphoma cancer and won.

8.13.15. It is the day
before I report to work, teaching school for the twenty-seventh year. Your
momma called. She asked me to watch you this afternoon while she goes to work. This is
the first time we’ll be all alone together. Just you, me, and the doggies in my
house. My first reaction was yikes, for I haven’t baby sat much. But your mommy
said, “I know you won’t neglect him.” It means the world to me that she has
allowed us into her life with you and your daddy. For that, I am blessed and
thankful. May you and me love each other—always and forever.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

It’s
an educational blog by Jill Weber, my colleague and friend for nearly a decade.

I'm honored that my first guest post is on her site, a place where Jill shares great ideas and student work. She inspires me.

And if you read some of her other posts, you'll see how education has changed since you went to school. This is our world:middle school kids, middle school content, in the middle of America.Click here to read the post, Tic Tac Toe, Show What You Know.

Sunday, March 6, 2016

The head chef at our school has been around since I started
teaching back when the junior high had last lunch in the fall of 1989.

School budgets were different, and so were the requirements
put on the lunch tray. There was always plenty of food. I was single and
coaching high school basketball, so school lunch was the one hot meal I got a
day­besides Sundays at my sister's.

I knew how to cook, but I didn't deem it necessary for just
me. At home, I ate a lot of Cheerios and toasted Cheeze Whiz sandwiches. My
favorite after school treat had become my adult evening meal.

This was back in the day when teachers had to supervise the
lunch room. Thanks to the Supreme Court of the United States, we get a whopping
20 minute-duty free lunch now. Just enough time to check your email, go to the
bathroom, microwave a meal, and scarf it down.

Here's another memory involving her.

One year, Charlene and her daughter were part of my
"It's All Relative" game show that I organized for the middle school
talent show.

Any district staff member with a middle school child or
grandchild could be in the show. Modeled after "The Newlywed Game"
from the 1970s, questions were asked of one relative while the other was out of
the room and vice versa. Art teacher Michaeline Kohlerhelped me come up with the title.

Charlene was up there with daughter Alisha or Amber, who ironically,
had just performed a trio or duet that day as her talent. The "It's All
Relative" game was close, and it came down to this question: What was your
most embarrassing moment?

This mother and daughter's answers matched. Charlene had
answered first, so when her daughter was brought out and she heard the question, her face
turned red and she took a big breath. She said, "Forgetting the words to
the song today." The crowd roared.

What had mortified a young soul on stage redeemed her
minutes later because her mom knew her well and had the guts to say so.

That's the way Charlene is. She tells it like it is. I admire
that.

Charlene had a milestone birthday this weekend, the big 6-0.

I'd started this post last fall during cafeteria appreciation week,
but life interrupted me and I didn't get it done. When I saw it was Charlene's
birthday, I knew this was the time to post it.

What a beautiful woman with a great heart. Thanks, Charlene,
for the many years your spirit has fed mine when our paths have crossed.

You made a young woman feel welcome into the life of small-town teaching.

Who was the one who helped you transition into a new situation? Share memories of your cafeteria lady.

Saturday, February 27, 2016

I can only draw stick
figures, but my father wanted me to be an artist.

When I was in grade
school, he was willing to pay for art lessons at The Orange Crate in Huron. But
Mom said I was busy enough with school, church, and piano lessons. She bought
me paint-by-number kits instead.

My art friends are
cringing. Sorry.

Dad didn't give up though.
He moved on to another medium. Photography.

I was a high school sophomore
one Sunday afternoon when we drove to Lewis Drug in Huron, and he bought me a Canon
35-millimeter camera. That spring he insisted I attend a photography class on
Monday nights at Huron
College. I did. The information
was way over my head.

But that's my dad, Mr.
You-Need-To-Get-Educated.

I didn’t understand aperture
and f-stops (and I still don’t), so I put the camera on program and away I went
snapping shots for the yearbook.

As a college freshman, I
enrolled in introduction to photography, again at Dad’s insistence. I didn't
understand the book work (again the f-stops and aperture confused me), so I
bombed the paper/pencil quizzes.

I could take the pictures
and earned good marks for my photos, but I didn't want a C or worse to start
out with, so I dropped the class—only it was beyond the two-week grace period
to do so. I have big fat W for withdrawal on my transcript.

I continued to play
around with taking pictures, especially with black and white film when I was at
home in the summers on the farm. Two young nieces who lived nearby served as my
models.

I coerced Suzanne and
Jessica to display downtrodden faces and pose by old buildings around their
home and mine. I dug up an old rusty lantern, some tin cans and books as props.
We had fun in the early 90s on our little photo shoots in rural South Dakota. I
did the same with my Walter niece and nephews who lived two hours away.

These photos were a big
hit with my brother-in-law Glen who lives in Kansas near me. He liked the black and white
pictures so much that they displayed them in their home for awhile.

It was during this time
that Martha Brohammer, my friend and colleague, re-taught me how to use the
dark room to develop the film. I had been taught that in the college course I’d
dropped. She was the art and Spanish teacher when I came to Cheney.

I wouldn't know how to function
in a dark room today and am glad digital photography came along.

Melodie's KSN Shot of the Day in May 2010

In 2004, I bought my
first digital camera, a point and shoot thing. In 2006 for Christmas, my
husband Chris bought me a better one since my old camera failed to capture the
beautiful fall foliage of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, where we were married.

Then in 2009, he bought
our first camera with the swing-out viewfinder, so we could have decent videos
of his daughter Brittany's singing and acting events.

Thus began Chris’
photography hobby. He's had many cameras since and continues to dabble and
learn. It's been fun watching him develop into an artist and actually sell his work on Fine Art America. He passed me up months
ago. His Facebook photography page, Framing Kansas, is three-years-old this month
with over 12,000 followers.

It’s still fun to remind
him though thatI was the first one with a KSN photo of the day. A shot of a bird, of all things, whose mouth was full of worms. Leon Smitherman of Kansas Today, dubbed it "Breakfast of
Champions" in May 2010.

Has anyone ever tried to turn you into something you're not? Did you develop any little bit of the desired skill?

Sunday, February 21, 2016

She's
spontaneous. I'm a planner. She's a let's-just-throw-this-together person. And it
works. She is the always-have-to-be-doing-something type gal. I'm a wait-a-minute-gotta-do-nothin'-for-awhile
woman.

Here's
another contrast: I think Dumb and Dumber
is the best comedy movie out there. She fell asleep during it.

Would
those differences make for a good friendship?

It
does for us. For Valerie Shellhammer and me.

We
have a lot in common. We're women. So we talk, analyze, and rehash the same old
stories. We
also cry. In front of each other.

We're
golfers. We enjoy exercise. We like to eat. Actually, I love cooking and
serving her food when she pops in between jobs. She's self-employed. She's
crafty and good with her hands in creating things. I'm not.

I
correct her spelling and help her word things the correct way when she writes.
She grounds me in reality with children. I ground her in reality with husbands.

I
think we're good for each other. She's the closest thing to a sister my age
that I've got. My real sisters grew up in a different generation. This Valerie-sister,
I'll call her that so as not to confuse, grew up in the same time period as I
did, but she's almost two years older.

We
understand the 70s, our elementary years. We get the 80s too when girls could
be tomboys. When girls had all the rights that the generation before us fought
for. And we are thankful for that.

Because of those trailblazers, we could play
basketball for our schools. She played half-court though in Oklahoma. I played
full-court in South Dakota.

And a couple decades later, God put us in the same
town, on the same basketball bus. I was coaching basketball, and she sponsored
the cheerleaders.

We played ladies' golf, walked and talked, and talked some
more on the phone.

She
housed my husband the first day I met him when he came for a visit, and
designed my step-daughter Brittany's room, so it was ready before she even moved
in.

Valerie
helps me stay grounded in my faith in Christ. She's not a goody-goody, but
she's a Biblically-sound person striving to live as our Savior intends.

And
tomorrow, I wish her a happy birthday. She's moved out of Cheney now, but not
too far, and I appreciate the time she always makes for me. I
know she feels the same. We verbalize it. We've always been that way. Talkative.

Thank
you, Lord, for my Proverbs 18:24 friend. A friend who sticks closer than a brother.Is your best friend the opposite of you in any way? What pulls you together more, the similarities or the differences? What do you do together to keep your friendship in tact?

Sunday, February 7, 2016

For a couple weeks one February, I lived with a table saw in the living room.

We had no garage at the time, and my husband was remodeling the bathroom. He'd already put in a new kitchen floor,
so I was used to a stove and refrigerator setting in there, but that was only
for a couple days.

This bathroom thing took awhile. And for a couple days, we took sponge baths. My good dishes set on the dining
room table since the china closet had to be moved out of the way—and so did the table.

My husband hadn't even looked for a job yet because he'd moved at the start of December and had a nice sum of money
from his house sale. His days were spent as Mr. Fixer Upper.

We hadn't really planned on changing things right away, but when the frig leak ruined the flooring in the kitchen, he went to work on other parts of the house.

All of the supplies and new furnishings were kept inside the house.
Yes, inside. Where we were living. Toilet in its box. In the living room. Bath tub. In the living room. Table saw, bead board, caulking supplies. In the living room. And there was still room for us to maneuveronto the couch. I know. Crazy. Crowded.

I stored extra toilet paper on top of the small couch in our bedroom. The bedroom got another closet. One just for him.

I came home from a basketball game to him sanding the top of his dresser closet. The thing was so smooth. But he stunk. I don't think he'd bathed for a few days—even though the bathroom was done at that point.

"What's the use?" he said. "I'm just going to stink more tomorrow."

Those early days of married life taught me what it meant to live with other people, not just a dog. Oh, forgot to mention, we had two of those running around.

Have you gone through a mess in your living space? How did you cope with it?

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Thirty years ago this week, the Space Shuttle Challenger
exploded killing the seven astronauts on board.

Where were you when the Challenger blew up?

I was a sophomore in the library at Tabor College in
Hillsboro, Kansas, when students came in talking about it. Soon we surrounded
the big screen TV in the student center watching the replays of the tragedy.

This is the event I use to teach the research paper process to my seventh graders, so I’m always aware of its anniversary. Thinking about it this year; however, caused me to chronicle where I'd been during major events.

Here are a few.

Where were you when Elvis died?

I was playing outside with my best friend Gail and my
second cousin Jodi Glanzer. We were near the tree we played on as a couch since its trunk lay parallel to the ground. Mom came out and told us that he’d passed. Gail and I liked his "Hound Dog" song, so we were a little sad.

But my dad likes to tell a story about what happened that night at
supper. He asked Jodi, a preacher's kid, what she thought of Elvis. She replied, “He’s not my
type.” We all laughed at her respectful disapproval of Elvis.

Where were you when President Ronald Reagan was shot?

I was on
the east stairway of Hitchcock High School when Larry Gilbert, a student a few
years older, came in from shop class yelling, “The President’s been shot.”

Our shop teacher, Coach Mike Satter, must have had the radio on out there, for teachers didn’t have cable TV in their classrooms
back the 80s. Later that night on the news, I remember thinking how bizarre it was for John Hinkley to shoot the President to impress Jodi Foster, the actress.

Where were you when Michael Jackson died?

I was at Conklin
Cars in Hutchinson, Kansas, waiting for my Alero to get tured up. On
television was a documentary of the life of Farrah Fawcett who had just died
that week from a battle with cancer. News reports of emergency vehicles showing
up at Jackson’s mansion interrupted the program.

When I got home, my
step-daughter Brittany called on the phone and said, “I’m sure sorry about Michael
Jackson dying, Melodie.” She knew I was a fan of his music. I was shocked, for
I hadn’t heard that he was gone.

Days later I bawled during most of his funeral
when it was televised on cable. I scrubbed away cleaning the kitchen and
bathroom. Mad—not necessarily because he wouldn't be producing music anymore, but because
of the choices he’d made that lead to the demise of his reputation.

Where were you when the OJ verdict was read?

I stood stunned beside
my social studies colleague Peter Holton when we’d gathered a bunch of jr.
highers into our largest room to hear it. Shock. The entire room. Quiet. No
cheers. No sighs of relief. Just mystified by the decision.

Where were you when the World Trade Center was attacked by
terrorists?

I was in my classroom teaching. My middle school communication students were critiquing videotapes
of their monologue projects. The Today
Show would come on between me switching out the tapes, so we heard the
reporting of Tower One being on fire. The kids wanted to watch it, and I’d told
them no and that we had stuff to do, so we kept on with our critiques. That was
the class of 2007. Tiane DeVore, Kurt Lehner, Bill Rhodes. Some of the faces in
that morning group.

Not until class break did I hear from other teachers what
was going on. I tried to go on with my day as normal; however, some teachers
watched the coverage all day long with the students. I’m glad I hadn't stopped to watch that morning, for I
wouldn’t have wanted to be responsible for young eyes seeing that second tower hit.

By mid-afternoon, teachers stood looking out the south
windows of the school. Cars lined up out onto Main Street of our tiny town to get gas. I waited in line over 20 minutes that evening.

We shut off our motors and stood outside talking while waiting
to pull up to the tank. I knew the man I stood by but can't remember who he was. We stood, Amercians, together. Talking, wondering,
concerned. A crisis made us pause.

The manager of the
station came out twice to change the price on the sign. A few murmured at her. She was following orders from corporate. We all knew that, but it was disconcerting.

I was supposed to meet with my neighbors' brother-in-law that evening to discuss the addition of a garage to my home. We never met. Everyone hunkered down and stayed home. Then the reports of the heroics of the Pennsylvania plane came in. I sat in my house. Alone. And cried. Cried for America. Part fear. Part pride.

Did you wait in line during the 2000 presidential election between
Gore and Bush?

I did. In small-town middle-America. I voted in the evening after
basketball practice. I’d never seen our poling area filled with chairs and
people let alone a line outside the police station, our poling place. I sat next to Jessa Albers, wife of a former student and now our school
nurse. It's where we met. The turnout was incredible. Again, Americans. Together for a common purpose.

Sunday, January 24, 2016

What we do the night before prepares us for the day ahead. Sounds
like common sense, right, but some of us get frazzled because we're not
morning people. Or, we've got people other than ourselves to get ready.

Here
are a few time management tips. Thanks to my mom, some of these are childhood
habits. Others, I've learned the hard way.

One

Plan your meals. Make your lunch. Pack it. Get it ready. Do
the same for your evening meal. Know what it's going to be. Everyone has a
diet. Plan yours like budget. I try to plan our meals for the week.

When I
first married, I never did that. I'd come home and then wonder what was for
supper. I made a calendar and prepared menus like lesson plans. I knew on
busier days that I might not want to come home and cook. Or sometimes,
depending on what type of busy, cooking with the cutting and stirring, helped
me slow down, relax, and be mindful of what I was doing. It was almost therapeutic.

Once you get a calendar going, you'll know what foods to cook after each other
because you'll finish off the fresh ingredients you spent the money to buy. You
won't be running to the store every night either and probably spend less.

Two

Prepare your clothing. Mom would set out my clothes the night before, and even thought I don't actually do that, I do have an idea of what I'm wearing each day.

Make it appropriate for the weather
and the day's tasks. Ifgetting a haircut,
don't wear a black turtleneck. Spending time in unfamiliar territory? Then wear
layers to avoid problems with the temperature. If you still iron clothes like I
do (I don't use the dryer for dress clothes. I have a thing about shrinkage),
then iron everything at once. Put on your favorite TV show or music and get it
done.

Why is this so important? Because everything in the closet is ready to go.
Wear things more than once if they're not soiled. Saves time and money.

Three

Go to bed. This is the most important thing of all. Why? So
you can get up in the morning. I've learned this from my husband. It's never
too early to go to bed if you're tired.

Get up early enough so you have
built-in margin. But be careful not to piddle and use up all the extra time.
That's my current problem—I'm using it and getting out the door later than I
want to.

I wrote a draft of this post during a 15-minute free-write time on
January 11 in the morning before work. I really liked moving my writing time to
the morning, but last week it didn't work because I had duties at school in the
morning and needed to get a move on.

Keep in mind that what works one week,
might not work the next, but that doesn't mean you can't go back to it when the
schedule changes. I'm no expert on time management, but I try to be efficient so I can relax and actually waste time and not feel guilty about it.

What tips do you have to manage time? Do you
find you've gotten better the older you get or have you gotten worse?

Saturday, January 9, 2016

I hit it when I was born. My parents were seasoned, for they'd already
raised three other children. My mom said she was thankful for me, a healthy
breach baby of barely six pounds. Because of my size and near jaundice condition,
I remained in the hospital for four days while Mom got to go home.

When I turned six, Mom threw me a party with a few of my cousins, church
kids, and some school friends. After games and food, we went outside. When Dad
wheeled a brand new bike around the corner, I thought I'd hit the lottery. I
had no idea I was getting it. I'm not sure where they'd kept it hidden. Maybe
at my brother's? Church friend Jimmy Joe Weems said, "That's
nothing," when he saw the bike. He hopped on it to show how he could drive
it without training wheels. He ran into the gas pumps.

In fourth grade, we were assigned to draw something representing our
birthday month. I did as Mom suggested and drew a flag for July. Mrs. Schneider
picked my picture as the winner. I don't remember any prize for it except her
saying it, but I felt like I'd won the lottery. It was nice to be praised. I've
kept that flag all these years.

In high school when I earned the honor of representing my school at Girls'
State in the summer of 1983, I was shocked. I was not the smartest in my class,
nor the second smartest, or the third. But politics fascinated me, even back
then—and not just in election years. My essay caught the eyes of the judges,
and I got to go.

I bawled when Mom drove me there,
for I was so scared. I'd never gone to an event with all strangers and stay
over night for four days. A girl from my church, Heather Mendel, was attending, but we'd be in separate groups. I knew our paths would never cross. In addition, the NBA finals were on TV that week. I
didn't want to miss them. This was the year Dr. J earned his ring, and I heard about it on the radio that night. I
think I cried myself to sleep because basketball was such an important part of
my life back then.

I did enjoy the week though and reported back to the American
Legion. I remember them saying, "We've never heard anyone enjoying this
quite like you did, Melodie." Their response made me happy. Seems we'd
both hit the lottery.

When I landed the job at Cheney, I felt God's favor again. How many first
year teachers are lucky enough to live near a big city but enjoy the safety of
small town life? Years later, Superintendent Don Wells told me I'd yelled into
the phone with excitement when he made the offer. I was pretty excited, for I'd
been driving all over the state for interviews. But when I drove to the top of
the highest point in Sedgwick County and saw the little town in the valley, I
thought this place might be the one. And it turns out, it was. I got to teach English. To kids. It was work, but it didn't seem
like work once I got the hang of it. And I was an assistant girls'
basketball coach, part of a winning program that went to state six years
straight. I'd hit the lottery.

And now decades later, with my match.com husband and a little grand baby
in our world, I feel once again that I've won the lottery. Dad is 91 and
healthy. Our dogs, my favorite companions, are always nearby. Family seems nearby too thanks to FaceTime.
Boredom and loneliness don't visit me much anymore. And I've got this writing
gig going—this place to share my thoughts. Life seems good.

I call these blessings. Some would say, the favor of God. Others would say
just luck. But tonight, hours away from the Powerball announcement, I'll call
it winning the lottery because when my $2 ticket doesn't win tonight, I'll still be rich with these blessings, these memories, these relationships.

Money can't buy that.

What memories, honors, or events are priceless in your life? Ever bought a lottery ticket and fantasized what you'd do with the winnings?